MOM! The ganglion on my right wrist has burst! SOB has been hard as the nobs of hell for years. Last time it burst was years ago when I was swinging a hammer all day. Pissed me off when it came back with a vengeance after I played Rhan for a very short while. I guess it was the snow shovelling yesterday and I JUST noticed it. Anyway, now it's a slight soft "mass" barely visible. I am gonna just leave it be for a week and then... and then... try playing Hran again veeeeerrrry slow and easy like and I will say the rosary in St. Pat's honour before every practice. Probably should call on St. Jude too. >;-)

I've had several of them cysts, one of them cut out of my right hand by a surgeon. You could try wearing a wrist brace, one of those that look like a fingerless glove, and the compression/massage caused by your everyday activities might prevent a relapse. The gloves are cheap enough -- visit your drugstore -- and can't hurt.

Dang, this battle for immortal perfection is gettin' SERIOUS! I have spent three days watching my wife weed through the endless layers of bureaucracy connected with post-retirement health plans, dental plans, Medicare gaps and supplements and assorted sequelae. Never seen a thicker bed of BS in my Godforsaken life, I tell yaz!

Meanwhile I been putting up Xmas lights, swapping out the cable modem for an updated model, reconfiguring the network wiring, and fixxing the telebission so as we can watch the rest of our Friends reruns. There is NO rest for the wicked, but, on the other hand, virtue is its own damnation. Hard choices for soft hearts. Carry on, as you were.

Hmm. I see that in my absence Rapparee has been trying to give Hector Ballsworthy a run for his money! :D Ballsworthy, of course, would never bother with a picayune story like that. He's only interested in writing such stories about the rich and famous of this world, knowing that that is what his readers want to hear about.

Here's a tip, Rap. You should have put that "news" story in RED font as well as making it really LARGE. Red font is a great eye catcher, and it might have pumped some life into what is a forgettable piece of hyperbole based on nothing but a lurid imagination.

In other news, this minor item appeared on an inner page of the Idaho State Journal on Dec 5th:

Library patrons were horrified to witness an unusual and as yet unexplained incident at an Idaho public library on December 4rth, when the chief librarian's trousers suddenly burst into flames as he was typing on a computer keyboard in one of the library administration offices. "It was really scary!" said Gladys Tightlips, one of the assistant librarians. "His pants just suddenly flared up in a huge burst of flame. I thought it must be a terrorist attack, so I dove behind my desk and called 911 as quickly as I could." The Fire Department arrived in minutes, but were able to do little, as library staff had managed to quell the flaming trousers themselves by that time by dragging the chief librarian outside and throwing him in the public fountain. Police are investigating this incident, but have no answers as yet, except to say that it was definitely not a terrorist attack. "What we may have here," said the local police chief, "is a case of spontaneous combustion...maybe some kind of spiritual visitation brought on by sinful behavior or something like that. I guess you could call it an act of God. Don't quote me on that, okay?"

The years are not kind to those who walk off from their trenches and batteries. The crepuscule of our days moves in slowly, but will not be gainsaid, deterred, or hindered in its stealthy advance. Fortunately, we are, ourselves. working from positions well beyond the normal coils of space and time. How awful it would be, otherwise, at the dimming of the long day. As ity is, there are better laughs to come, no matter where you stand today.

I walked into an entrenched battery once and got the shock of my life.

But Amos is correct. Ever since I retired better than five years ago my life has been a constant descent physically, mentally, and morally. Well, maybe not morally, but I threw that in because I like double Ls. But where I used to blithefully run the five miles to work and the five back I can now barely get out of bed in the morning. Because of various surgeries I am now addicted to general anesthesia. The number of pills I have to take (thank goodness not Viagra!) has increased exponentially. When I go to shoot targets at the range I can barely lift my .22, much less place a round in the black any more. Rheumatism has forced me to give up placing my elbows on a wet bar. I no longer stand under the mistletoe as my lips, strengthened and exercised by years of trumpeting, are no longer as fit for it as they once were.

Alas! But my old friend Bill saw it coming:

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Yes, it's a sad business, the slow slide into infirmity and mortal dissolution. Even I who once led thundering charges across bloodstained fields of martial fury, and woo'd many a fair damsel on many a fair night, am now reduced to crouching behind a cheap desk and conversing idly with distant acquaintances and complete strangers across a dusty computer keyboard and console! Oh, the tragic folly of it all!

gnu, stop fooling around and take some chances!! Have some excitement, man! Live it up a bit! You only go around once, you know (unless you believe in reincarnation, in which case it's what? twelve, fifteen time?)!

WE must each pace the way and count the measure of it in our own rhythm and time. Let hot dogs make the beat of our fading day, or literary allusions wisely passed on, or images of small dogs well taken; it will all be dust and its colors lost. In the meanwhile, before dust it will be simple joy, greater than which there is no benefit in worldly time.

And reincarnation has to stop somewhere. There are only so many who can reincarnate. Unless, if you are reincarnated your reincarnation can reincarnate as well as your original, which seems like a two-for-one deal and would be silly on a cosmic scale. But then, I believe six impossible things before breakfast and have never been bothered by silliness. In truth I embrace silliness, until somebody runs with a pair of scissors or something.

Reincarnation--it's not for everybody!

I like that. It will be my new slogan.

I like it because it forces the issue of core identity, as a non-material, spiritual sorta being, and invokes the image of thousands hanging about on the fringes of meat-life contemplating whether or not they can (A) make the grade to running a meat body or (B) deign to stoop so low as to take one on.

Spirit is not confined by the numbers game, Rap. It can manifest itself in as many or as few bodies as it wants to at any given time, in any given place, and it's certainly not limited to inhabiting a discrete number of physical bodies simply on this one rather small Planet Earth. Thought goes everywhere and imagines all things, in imagining them eventually brings them forth, and this is the nature of Spirit.

A good Canadian, Marshal McLuhan, posited the Global Village. Pierre Teilhard de Chardon posited the Omega Point. Both are more or less brought together in Arthur C. Clarke's "Childhood's End." Celtic, Norse, Indic, and other religions posit transmigration of souls (reincarnation). However, in all of my reading in the subject -- philosophical, theological, and -ical, have I run across the idea of a huge arena full of bucking bodies in chutes, waiting for a mass of souls screaming "Me! Me! I wanna ride one!", like a reincarnation rodeo.

But it's worth a try, I guess. The Reincarnation Rodeo! Part of the PRRC circuit, complete with a PRRC roll and crease for your PRRC hat! Calgary, Pendleton (or rather the Ideals thereof) here we come!

Yes, just think...you could opt to be born in the near future as the illegitimate offspring of a Sudbury skank who, in a moment of weakness or a drunken stupor, engaged in a random act of casual lust with Shane McBride! This would propel you into a new life quite unlike any you had experienced before when in the body. Think of the lessons that could be learned!

Mom! Down at the very, very bottom watching British porno flicks from the BFI! The very idea! I'm glad that I caught you in time! Now you come back home RIGHT NOW and watch "Beach Blanket Bingo" and have some popcorn and Pepsi and early to bed!

Google Earth is a great resource. Just type in the address and POOF! I take a left at the 3rd set of lights after Hall's creek and a left into the parking lot and I am at the doc's. Seeing as how it's for catawracks (yes, I did), Google Earth has done double duty this time.

Consorting and hobnobbing with the likes of Winston Churchill and Bernie Sanders down at the bottom of Skid Row (originally Skid Road). Picking up The Very Ideas! Shocking and disgraceful. Tasteless. Now sit down and have your tea and toast!

Let her hobnob as she wishes With the bums, or with the fishes With the women, where it's legal Or out West with balding eagles Elk, coyote, bear and salmon There's no sense in chide or damning This is Mom, of velvet fist, And she will hobnob where she whist!

Mom is ever prim and proper And she'll never come a cropper Never drinks sans pinkie raised Never lets her nerves get frayed Zeppelin bombers would ne'er get tea In amongst the greenery But to her ample bosom takes Her children tho' they're awful rakes "Garryowen" is often heard But never a discouraging word For MOAB would ne'er her children scorn Come afternoon, or night, or morn.

The horrid northern thunderstorms have blown over and the day has become benign, kindly and benevolent, a dulcet blue of sky and golden of late sunlight; well, not now, because it has set, but it was that a while ago. En bas les temps frigides! Vive la belle temps!

I was helping Mom weed the garden. Or maybe rebuild the shed. Or doing something wonderful and endearing, because that just the way I am. Why, I even took a pink single shot .22 elk huntin' rifle to the Mall yesterday (please, please, don't ask).

10 inches of snow is supposed to fall. I have the snowblower all ready and we have food and all is ready.

MOM went with me last night to the hafla* and enjoyed the music (live before and at intermission!) and the dance and the food out in the lobby. She was even very supportive when the entire class of beginners (alas, just two of us) were 3/4 way through our dance when the CD started to skip and it required a little help to end the dance and get off stage. But it was exciting!

*Look it up and you'll figure out the kind of dance. It isn't a polka!

SNOWBLOWER? You lazy ne'er-do-well imitation of manly prowess! We get storms of sunlight down here that would make you flinch--overflows the gutters, fills the trees, climbs up the houses right to the roof sometimes. Awful sunlight. But we don't use SUNblowers out here in the West! Hell, No, we don't. Greenhorns sometimes bring in their fancy rigs but they get laughed down, and lose them from the sheer shame. We handle our floods by hand, like REAL men. When we get hit by sunstorms we just break out our Sunstorm gear--flip-flops special made, and usually a teeshirt against the burn, ya know--and get to work sweating and pushing it out of the driveway manually. MAN'S work, by Gosh.

Our snowblower, unlike the wimpy things he's assuming, doesn't use gas. It doesn't even have a motor (that works). Out here we just take the biggest, heaviest-duty, one we can find and use it as we used to use shovels. Oh, sure, it's a little heavy, but it builds muscles and just saturates the (male) body with testosterone (female bodies are saturated with TRH). We throw it up past the 6500 foot level, of course, so that we get a better snowpack. The snow just flies, out here in the real West!

Now, shoveling sunlight is just plain silly. Everyone knows it melts away as fast as is falls. Worst you might get after a sunshower is a slightly warmer sidewalk or a hot car interior. Fill up your car with snow and see what happens!

Yes, Rap. Plus, huntin season is over and that means Dale won't be jackin any moose or deer til Kissmeass Eve. I assume Daisy and him ain't done their shoppin so if they do come to Moncton, they will be lookin fer me ta take em ta yer Costco. Seein as how I sold my truck and I got a peep hole on my back door, I kin just not answer the door. Combine that with caller ID on my phone and Henry's yer uncle.

Did I ever tell ya about Uncle Henry "Peg Leg" Pascal? What a character. Last time he went to jail was fer smashin out the big plate glass window of the liquor store in Chipman. Man what needs a drink and got a peg leg can't be stopped. He was Gramma Owens' brother. Got a pile a stories about him... all bad. He used to spend winters boarding at Gramma's until the "tabaccky pipe incident".... Uncle Chic, at the age of five years old was rendered with no fingerprint on an index finger and, subsequently, Peg Leg had an imprint of Gramma's boot on his ass.

Ornery membership? I have quite thoroughly researched the Blind River McBrides. Here are some highlights:

circa 1595: The McBrides are expelled from Scotland by James VI after it is found that they are "directedly descended fromm ye loins of Alexander Bean of Bennane Head and of Terrible Memorie." This is considered merciful

July 1, 1689 (OS, July 12, 1689 NS): Having married into the otherwise respected McBride family, while fighting with the Jacobite forces at Cath na Bóinne, the McBrides deliberately change the aim of an artillery piece as the round is discharged, allowing William of Orange to escape with only a shoulder wound. James II has Cathal, Brien, and Sean McBride drawn and quartered and the money they were given by the Williamite forces (thrupence ha'penny) "placed unto the arses of the traitors" and their bodies burnt.

June 29, 1798: Now living in the "disgusting hamlet" (Sir Abraham Finche) of Dongle (claimed by neither Kerry nor Cork) the McBrides join the rebel forces. During Cath Chnoc Fhíodh na gCaor they realized that the Irish forces might lose and showed General Dundas a road around the back of Vinegar Hill, permitting Dundas' forces to attack from the rear. After the battle it is recorded that the McBrides took great delight in pitch-capping and rape. They were rewarded, to the delight of all 27 of them, with an acre of ground.

1847: Thrown onto a "coffin ship" by their fellow villagers after they were caught pilfering corpses outside of Skibbereen, they eventually reach Grosse Île in Quebec. They escaped from quarantine and, leaving a trail of typhus in their wake, eventually arrive in Blind River. Their first recorded incidence in BR is a police log entry about the arrest, on January 7, 1903, of Alexander Bean McBride for "being disgustingly drunk again."

These are rather the highlights of the story of this diseased branch of an otherwise well-regarded family. There are many other, lesser?, incidents of drunkenness, incest, rape, theft, grave robbing, bullying, and similar activities.

While visiting Edinburgh at Tanner's Close in 1828, Kathleen McBride met "and became familiar with" William Burke. Working as a servant in the house he shared with William Hare and his wife, Burke confessed that she showed Hare and himself the fastest way to obtain "the beef" for Dr. Knox. After capture she was freed after turning against Burke and Hare (and due to her "delicate condition"), and she was run out of England, Scotland, Wales, the Isles of Man and Jersey, and Cornwall by mobs, barely escaping back to Dongle with her neck unstretched. Her subsequent book about her trip to Scotland was an international worst seller and placed on the Index Liborum Prohibitorum as "Vomitus etiam obscena nimium in animis legentium Hibernorum" -- all copies were seized, burned, and the ashes thrown in the sea.

Hanging by one fingernail and one of the gray hairs upon her aged head, Mom MOAB dangled over the yawning abyss, her strength rapidly failing, when Rapparee appeared and caught her frail body in his manly arms, lifted her up onto his coal black steed and brought her home.